


when the sky turns gray (and everything is screaming)

by stardustgirl



Series: Clone Wars Oneshots [7]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Clone Wars, Dark Anakin Skywalker, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Implied Master/Padawan Relationship(s), Jedi, Jedi Temple (Star Wars), Kanan Jarrus Has PTSD, Lightsabers, Lothal, Memory Loss, Order 66, Padawan Braids, Past Mind Control, Post-Battle of Geonosis, Post-Episode: s02e07 Legacy of Terror, Post-Episode: s02e08 Brain Invaders, Post-Order 66, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Star Wars Rebels: Spark of Rebellion, Psychological Trauma, Sith Anakin Skywalker, Soresu, Star Wars Rebels: Spark of Rebellion, Survivor Guilt, The Jedi Order Needs To Calm Down, Trauma, Young Ezra Bridger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 00:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18712576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustgirl/pseuds/stardustgirl
Summary: Caleb meets an initiate, only weeks before their whole world crumbles and he's left to pick up the pieces.





	when the sky turns gray (and everything is screaming)

**Author's Note:**

> My friend and I decided to do a fic exchange with each other for May 4th, and I was supposed to make my one for her fluffy...only it didn't really work.
> 
> TW: Child Death, Implied Murder, Implied/Referenced Death of Parental Figure, Those Worm Things from Geonosis

“Caleb, this is Dev.  Dev, Caleb.”

He looks down at the youngling, nose wrinkling slightly.  The kid grins toothily and sticks a hand out.

“’m Dev!”

“He just lost another tooth,” the crechemaster explains as Caleb accepts the offered hand, brows shooting up in surprise at how firm the kid’s grip is.

“...Caleb,” he says slowly.

“You’re a Padawan, righ’?”  The kid points to his braid and Caleb forces himself to stop rubbing it subconsciously.  “Who’s your mas’er?”

“Depa Billaba,” he says in a quiet voice.  He pushes away the thoughts that rise with the name.  Caleb shoots a wary glance at the crechemaster, and thankfully the Togruta steps forward.

“Padawan Dume is here to show you and the other initiates some Form III defensive techniques.  Go and get the others, Dev.” The boy nods and turns, running off. Caleb meets the crechemaster’s gaze again.

“How old is he?”

“Nine,” she answers, watching along with him as the boy reaches a cluster of younglings a few hundred meters away.  “He was found as a two year old, in the Outer Rim.” Caleb nods, raising an eyebrow as the group of younglings runs over, Dev leading the way with a proud smile.

“These are my friends!” he announces, introducing them one by one to Caleb.  He loses track of them all in an instant, and can’t help a nervous smile at the vague, amused look the crechemaster is sending his way.

“Alright, younglings.  Sit down. Padawan Dume came here today to show you all something.  He practices Soresu. Can anyone tell me what form that is?”

Dev’s hand shoots up faster than the others, though he hesitates for barely a second before yelling out his answer.  “I’s Form III!”

The crechemaster nods.  “Good, Dev. But make sure to wait so the others can get a chance next time.”

“But I knew the answer!”

“Everyone deserves a chance, Dev.  You got yours, so the next time will be someone else’s.  The Dark Side feeds off of greed and selfishness. If you don’t want to fall to it, then you must learn to control yourself.”

Caleb watches, his outward expression passive as Dev’s face scrunches up in confusion before relaxing into a cowed countenance.  “Yes, Mas’er Nishii.”

Inwardly, however, Caleb’s mind is a whirlwind.

He barely listens as the crechemaster continues lecturing and quizzing the younglings, her earlier words swirling in his mind.  Why did it matter if some kid knew the answer and was excited about it? That didn’t mean they would fall to the Dark Side; that was ridiculous.  And especially a kid as innocent as Dev.

He keeps his thoughts to himself, buries them deep within, and releases them into the Force.  The crechemaster turns to him.

“Are you ready, Padawan Dume?”

He nods, drawing himself out of his distraction and into the present.  “I- ye- yeah, I am.” He unclips his ‘saber from his belt, getting into the first position and igniting the cyan blade.  The younglings’ eyes widen and he hears several awed whispers, unable to help a slight smile from forming on his own lips.  Dev’s excited voice crows, “His is the same color as Anakin Skywalker’s!”

* * *

It’s normal for Caleb to see his dead master behind his eyelids whenever he closes them, and it’s just as normal for him to avoid sleeping because of that.

What’s _not_ normal, however, is being awake far into the night when only a few other Jedi are up and about—and all Knights and Masters and Temple guards, too; Caleb’s the only Padawan who dares to defy the curfew on a nightly basis and he’s also the only Padawan they’ll allow to do so because of his circumstances—and hearing a faint, barely there thudding.

He shifts, letting one leg fall over the edge of the statue as he tries to make out the source of the noise.  He can only tell that it’s getting closer. A look into the Force signatures surrounding him, however, is enlightening.  But only until it becomes confusing.

Pushing aside the signatures of all the Jedi around him and the other beings of Coruscant is difficult, but not impossible, especially for a Padawan whose near-constant insomnia makes him particularly open to the Force and he’s had weeks to practice.  When he recognizes the signatures, too, he nearly falls off the statue in shock.

Grey.  Styles.  Big Mouth.  Remo.  Stance—

 _No.  It’s not them, get_ out _of your_ head!

But they _are_ the signatures of clones, all identical in their midichlorian levels and thus the way they shine in the Force.  But why so many…? It’s nearly a battalion, only a few dozen soldiers short—

He’s shooting Stance, crying and sobbing as the man slumps to the ground, dead.  He’s already dead, anyway; the worm that crawls out of him— _crawls out of him, for Force’s sake—_ only serves to prove his point.  There’s a beeping on the console, and he doesn’t dare to turn away from the doorway again, instead just reaching blindly behind him as the hand holding the blaster shakes.  He hits the right button eventually, because there’s a quiet chime, silence, and then the confusion in Master Windu’s voice is obvious—” _Caleb, what..._ ”—

 _Get_ out _of your_ head! he repeats to himself, digging a hand into his hairline in a painful attempt to ground himself.  Shakily, he releases a breath, running the same trembling hand down his face.

Clones.

They’re just clones.

Just clones.

And they’re getting closer.

The thudding is ominous, like a beating drum, or the beat of someone’s heart as they’re dying— _the beat of his master’s heart in death as she lies in his arms in the cockpit, hot tears falling from his face onto hers—_

The Force whispers a warning, but it’s muffled, and it’s only then that Caleb realizes why he can’t specifically place the location of the clones—the Force is being muffled in the Temple somehow.  Shaking, he gets to his feet, still on top of the statue until he jumps off and lands in a crouch.

 _The creche,_ the Force whispers.   _Check the creche._

He checks the creche.

The younglings are peaceful, asleep.  Like he should be.

All except one.

Dev stares at him with wide eyes, the bright blue nearly glowing in the dark.

“Caleb?” he asks in a hoarse whisper.

Caleb casts a glance over his shoulder, still unsure why, exactly, the Force was so insistent that he check the creche.

 _Check the creche._  And there it is again, too.

And then—

He gasps, stumbling onto one knee.  Images flash through his mind, accompanying the usual ones of the clones turning on him and Depa—Master Ki-Adi-Mundi falling in snow, Grey approaching and wielding the same bloody blaster he used on Depa, Master Koon being shot down by someone familiar ( _who?!_ his mind screams, but he can’t answer), Styles calling his name softly as he prowls the ship beneath the vents and Caleb holds his breath and hopes not to be discovered because he _can’t die like the clones did,_ Master Secura turning and—

_Clones.  It’s the clones._

“Dev,” he hisses.  The azure sparks in the darkness have since disappeared, but at the sound of Caleb’s voice, they reappear.  “Get everyone else up. We’re leaving.”

* * *

Caleb exhales silently, watching the council chamber through the small hole above.  It’s silent, still, but the Force is nearly screaming at him to _getoutgetoutgeto—_

The door slides open.  Footsteps.

He holds his breath as someone steps directly over the hole he’s looking through, spreading his shielding out more but remaining careful not to make it strong enough that he and the younglings appear like a void in the Force.

“Master Skywalker, there are too many of them!  What are we going to do?”

There’s a familiar snap-hiss, and he hears a suppressed gasp.

And then the screams begin.

Caleb whirls, turning to a wide-eyed Dev and the rest of his clan.  “Let’s go,” he barks in a whisper, making a beckoning gesture. The younglings pad behind him as he leads them down the descending staircase, the only light the occasional odd, glimmering moss.  Finally even the moss disappears, leaving them in darkness. Caleb stops, Dev bumping into him and the others bumping into Dev, and unclips his lightsaber. He ignites the blade and holds it aloft before moving forward again.

Dev’s presence tugs at his mind insistently, in the way that only an untrained initiate’s signature can.  He glances over his shoulder after about ten minutes of it, raising an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“When are we getting to the bottom?”

He chuckles despite the morbidity of the situation, turning back around.  “When we get there.”

As they descend, he keeps mistaking the ancient, never-used tower for the catacombs on Geonosis, keeps seeing Remo’s helmet as it rolls on the ground, liberated from the rest of the clone’s armor by Depa’s own lightsaber.

He forces himself to keep his breathing even, forces himself to keep going even when he sees Jedi falling in the Temple and the field alike, even when he keeps seeing Styles’s smile as he finally sights Caleb, stuck in the air vent as he desperately tries to climb into it but Styles is there and there’s a stun bolt—

They make it to the bottom of the tower, and Caleb gets the door open after several minutes of pulling at the handle.  The sight ahead shocks him.

It’s one of the lower levels, people bustling about ahead of them.  He feels Dev’s hand slide into his and squeezes it back lightly.

Now to find a ship.

* * *

Caleb glances over his shoulder, unable to help a small smile as he watches the two remaining younglings slumping into each other, the older one nearly falling off the seat.  Dev sniffs in his sleep, turning to lean against the seat the opposite way as his head droops.

He returns his attention to the windscreen at a soft chime from the console.  They’re coming up on Lothal, the planet looming large as he guides the ship into atmo and asks for landing clearance.

“ _Pilot identification?_ ”

“Uh Cal– Kanan.  Kanan Jarrus,” he stutters, exhaling quietly at the near-miss.   _Get it together, Caleb._

“ _We’re confirming, standby._ ”  Caleb taps his knee as he waits, biting his lip in anxiety.  He sees Republic—no, Imperial now—Destroyers dropping out of hyperspace, surrounding him, firing and destroying him and Dev and Dev’s clanmate.

Control responds.  “ _Identification confirmed, Kanan Jarrus.  Proceed to hangar bay six in Capital City Spaceport.  Have a nice day._ ”

He lands the ship where control instructed and then heads to the back, gently shaking the shoulders of both boys and murmuring quietly to them to wake them up.  Dev sits up first, yawning and rubbing his eye before shoving the other initiate’s shoulder.

“Get up, Gavi,” he mutters.  The other boy sniffs, sitting up abruptly.

“‘m up,” he mumbles, standing and swaying slightly as his unfocused eyes look around.

“Come on.  We’re going outside.”  Caleb gestures for them to follow as he pats his pocket, double checking for the credits.

He leads them into the hangar, throwing his hood over his head.  A quick glance back reveals that the younglings have followed suit.  They emerge into the main area of the spaceport and Caleb looks around, eyes wide.  The last time he was on an offworld spaceport was– was—

He shoves away the thoughts of _that_ mission, instead focusing on the here and now.

They reach the exit of the spaceport and stand on the edge of a street.  A speeder bike whizzes past, inciting a familiar headache as Caleb falls back half a step.   _This is a working speeder bike on Lothal, not a crashing speeder bike on Geonosis.  You’re okay._

“Come on,” he repeats, mouth dry.  They’re attracting attention.

They wander the city aimlessly for hours, and Caleb hasn’t seen anything even remotely reminiscent of an orphanage.  He glances across the street, sees a bar, glances down at the younglings. It’s worth a shot.

He stops them outside the bar, crouching down.  “Alright, you two stay out here. Play a game, or– or something.  Act inconspicuous, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

“There’s no dejarik though,” Gavi protests.  Caleb throws his hands up, shrugging.

“I don’t know, do _something._  Don’t talk to anyone.”  The younglings nod and he rises, smiling at them before entering the cantina.  He makes a beeline for the bar.

“What can I get you?” the barkeeper, an Ithorian with a translator device, asks as he glances over.

“Just– just uh…” Caleb glances at the menu and swallows, picking the only drink that has a name that looks relatively like Basic, “a Reactor Core.”  The Ithorian’s silent for a long moment, staring at him, but then nods and moves further down the bar. “Hey, uh, also I had a question.” The barkeep glances back, but Caleb waits until he returns with the drink before continuing.  “Is there an orphanage or something around here? I, uh, found some younglings down by the spaceport, they’re in bad shape and I’d like to find them a home or something—”

“No orphanages.  But I can get you the names of a couple families who might be able to help.”

Caleb gives a short nod, muttering a quiet “thank you” as he accepts the drink and slides a credit bar across the bar.  “That would be great.” He downs the drink in one gulp, trying to put off an air of bravado, and immediately chokes. He coughs, doubling over as the drink burns on its way down his throat.  The barkeep watches passively, and Caleb has the feeling that if he could read Ithorian facial expressions, the man would be amused.

“You got time for a couple of tips before you go?”  Caleb hesitates but nods, pulling out another credit bar, but the barkeep shakes his head and closes Caleb’s hand over it.  “Not that kind.” He reaches up, adjusts his translator. When he next speaks, it’s in quiet Ithorese as he leans over the bar.

“Drop the accent, drop the hood, drop the cloak.  You speak too formally for someone native to the Outer Rim, Jedi.”  Caleb stiffens. “I won’t turn you in, but there’s people who will, and people who might, and you never know.  Don’t trust anyone.” He readjusts his translator, returning to Basic. “Thanks for your business.”

Caleb nods hesitantly, mind still spinning.  He gets off the barstool, nodding again as he thinks through everything.  The barkeep jots something down on a piece of flimsi quickly and passes it to him.  “I’m Jho, if you ever need anything else.”

“Cal– Kanan,” he replies, smiling slightly and sliding his hood back.  He scans the piece of flimsi and nods to the barkeep again. He leaves.

The younglings lean against the wall of the building outside, watching the traffic with bored expressions.  When Caleb arrives, they both perk up.

“Did you find something?”

“Yeah, we’re going to go find some people,” Caleb answers Gavi, smiling tightly.  “Take your hoods off, and robes. Put ‘em in here.” He sets his bag on the ground and removes his own robe, balling it up and tossing it inside as the younglings follow suit.  After a moment of hesitation, he adds his lightsaber to the bag, too.

He stops a street away from the first address and turns to the the younglings.  “Gavi, come with me. Dev, stay here a minute, okay?” Dev nods, and Gavi follows him to the house.

He returns to Dev a half hour later, scratching the name _Kell_ off of the piece of flimsi.  Dev’s brow wrinkles in surprise at his arrival.

“Where’s Gavi?”

“Dev, you know how I had you and Gavi and some of the other younglings stay on the ship on the other planets?”  He nods slowly. “I’ll explain why when we get to our next stop, okay?” Dev nods again, latching onto Caleb once more as they start walking again.

They reach the address soon, and just before the house, Caleb turns and crouches in front of Dev.

“What’s going on, Caleb?” he asks quietly.

“I’m finding a safe place for all of you.  A place where the Empire can’t find you. Okay?”  Dev nods again, trusting expression morphing into one of concern.  “So I need you to _trust me._ ”

“Okay,” Dev agrees in a small voice.  Caleb pulls him into a brief embrace, squeezing him tightly before holding him at arm’s length.  He closes his eyes, stretches his hand out, and touches the boy’s forehead.

One by one, he starts to remove his memories.

The youngling’s first time he got a question right, a wide grin plastered onto his face.  The first time Dev held and ignited a lightsaber, awed expression as the blade hummed. The first time he met a clone, asking so many questions the man only laughed and said he would have to ask his commander.

Over the sound of the boy’s memories, Caleb can hear Dev’s panicked voice.  “Caleb? Caleb what’s happening?! Caleb my head it hurts it hurts it _hurts!_ ”

Distantly, he can hear himself murmuring in response, trying to comfort the boy.  “I know, I know Dev. I know. It’ll be okay.”

He reaches the boy’s last memory, tearful eyes staring into Caleb’s as he begs for it to stop hurting.

Caleb removes it, sends the Force with it in a strong suggestion to _sleep_ at the same time, and then removes the youngling’s knowledge of both the Force and his name.  Dev collapses into him with a soft groan, unconscious, and Caleb opens his eyes.

He picks the boy up reverently, an arm under his knees and an arm under his upper back as he uses his elbow to support the boy’s neck.  Carefully, he stands, and walks to the second address on the piece of flimsi. He nudges the bottom of the door with his foot, knocking quietly before shifting Dev slightly.  There’s a call of “coming!” and then the door opens, revealing a middle-aged man with eyes that widen upon seeing Dev’s limp form. Caleb swallows and clears his throat.

“Are you Mr. Bridger?”

* * *

He stares up at the hovering freighter, gawking openly.

“You want a ride?” the man on the loading ramp calls.  He glances around, mouth going dry as he spots a TIE. “Kid, you have a better option?”

No.  No, he doesn’t.  Sighing, he starts to run toward the ship, pushing the crate with him.

“Come on!  Leave the crate.  You’ll never make it!”

He jumps, half-pulling and half-pushing the crate up toward the ship.

He just barely makes it, the edge of the crate sliding onto the ship’s ramp.  A hand grasps his wrist, helping him up. His sleeve is pushed back and they have skin-to-skin contact for less than a second, but it’s enough for him to get flashes—a building with high ceilings and a feeling of peace, a room with a thousand fountains, a blue flash of light slashing through the air—and then it’s gone.

“Whoa!”  He looks up, meeting the man’s focused gaze.  “That was….”

He pushes past him to the other crate, trying to tug it away from the purple guy.  “Do you have any idea what these are worth on the black market?!”

“I do, actually,” the man who pulled him up replies, approaching.  Ezra scoffs, rolling his eyes and tugging at the crate again.

“Well they’re _mine._ ”  The man snorts.

“Sure, kid.  Sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize.
> 
> Join the Rebels Discord [here](https://discord.gg/A9aCvce)!


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